Mercy came knocking once, a pale wanderer draped in dawn, with weary eyes and gentle hands, carrying no sword, only the burden of understanding. But the wicked knew not her face. Their hearts were citadels of stone, where compassion died unnamed and every wound became a weapon. They barred the gates. For mercy is a stranger in the hearts of the wicked. She walks their halls unseen, a ghost among shadows, whispering of forgiveness to ears that worship vengeance. They drink from poisoned wells and call bitterness wisdom. They sharpen grief into blades and wear cruelty like a crown. Where mercy offers a bridge, they build a wall. Where mercy kneels, they strike. And so she leaves quietly, taking her light with her, while darkness settles deeper into chambers already cold. The wicked do not fear mercy, they fear what mercy reveals: that beneath their iron masks, beneath their kingdoms of pride, beneath the ruins they call strength, there lives a trembling truth they dare not face. For merc...
He sits at the table, familiar face,
but his thoughts are miles away.
His body fills the rooms of home,
his heart has rented another place.
A single choice, carelessly made,
split love into before and after.
Since the betrayal, nothing fits
not the vows, not the laughter.
He wears the mask of a perfect husband,
out of guilt, not devotion.
Kind words rehearsed, smiles practiced,
affection emptied of emotion.
His wife feels the distance in small ways:
the silence between simple talks,
the way his eyes drift elsewhere,
the absence in his presence.
The home once built on warmth and trust
now stands cracked but standing still.
He broke it quietly, with desire,
and guilt became his daily will.
He stays, yet he has already gone
a man divided by his own deceit,
living proof that one bad decision
can turn love into memory.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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